


Call Log

by bailor



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, I think there might be a happy ending, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Magic, Phil is sad, it's complicated - Freeform, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bailor/pseuds/bailor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is dead. Phil saw the body.</p>
<p>So how does the archer keep calling him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Call it a Funeral

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this (http://chainedhawk.tumblr.com/post/45326090982/did-you-get-another-one-yeah-how-many-is) tumblr post. So, yeah, work in progress, vague ideas of plot, there's obviously gotta be magic involved.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint Barton is dead after a routine op. Phil buried his body.
> 
> So why is he getting phone calls from his archer?

_Phil slumps against the wall, his knuckles white as he presses the phone to his ear. It is silent now, but he can’t bring himself to set the phone aside. It feels final. (Just like every other time, when he’s terrified it will be the last, when he hopes it will be the last). He allows his eyes to slide closed for just a moment. He isn’t surprised that his cheeks are dry. Even now, even after all this, he can’t seem to cry._

_“Did you get another one?” Natasha’s voice, soft and gentle, breaks the silence. He hadn’t even heard her approach. Phil’s eyes open and he fixes his gaze on the Russian, fighting back an unfair spark of anger. Her face is pale, expression tight with concern. This should infuriate him – after all, he is Agent Phillip J Coulson and he certainly doesn’t need to be handled with kid gloves. He isn’t fucking fragile, despite what they all think these days. Instead, some of the anger ebbs away into numbness._

_“… Yeah.” He answers her after a long moment of silence, allowing his hand to drop down from his ear._

*

Phil Coulson is not having a good Wednesday. He’s on edge every time his boyfriend (and he _hates_ using that word, because it seems incredibly juvenile and can’t begin to encompass what they are) is on an op without him. But it’s a routine job, short, simple, and sweet. Clint should be back within the week. The only reason the archer is there at all is that Fury’s pissed off at him. The Director seems to think small-time terrorist rings and junior agents in Burma are a suitable punishment.

He begins this shitty day by fielding yet another call from his nosy eldest sister (“I’m going to meet this boy of yours eventually, you might as well just bring him around to Sammy’s birthday party.” “We’ll see.”). And when it rains it pours – the only way to get through this kind of day, the kind of day where everything is heavy and it’s all going wrong, is copious amounts of caffeine, and SHIELD has chosen today to run out of coffee (Phil suspects Stark). Without caffeine, he can’t even contemplate tackling the seven new Avengers-related reports on his desk.

But he does.

When Jasper enters his office an hour later, he doesn’t so much as pause in scribbling notes on the report of Iron Man’s little joy ride over Canada. Stark is pushing his luck this week. Jasper shuts the door almost gently behind him, and Phil arches a single eyebrow.

“Barton’s missing.”

“That’s not possible.” Phil replies patiently, flipping to the next page in his report. “They didn’t even being the operation until this morning. It’s only been three hours. We don’t declare agents missing after three hours, Jasper.”

“They subdued the terrorist ring in forty-five minutes.” Jasper recites, as if he’s studied the report several times already. His voice is soft and kind, almost sympathetic, and that somehow makes it worse. “Barton disappeared from the scene ten minutes into the altercation. Not a word over the comm-line. His gear – including his bow – was found in his perch.”

Phil shoots his friend a bland expression, as if feigning disinterest will make this entire thing disappear. Jasper plunges on, though his voice softens. (It still doesn’t help).

“We’ve mobilized a SHIELD recovery team already. As far as we can tell from preliminary investigation, the terrorist ring had nothing to do with Barton’s capture. Never even heard his name.”

“He hasn’t been captured.” Phil replies, and he’s aware of the sharpness in his voice. “He’s removed himself from the situation, for reasons I cannot possibly fathom, and I will be having a long chat with him when he returns, but he was not captured.”

Jasper offers him a small, disbelieving smile.

Phil doesn’t return it. He slams his report shut and pushes himself to his feet, brushing past his friend without another word.

*

_Natasha’s face crumples. He tries to decide if it’s genuine or a tactical decision. After a beat, he decides it’s at least a little of both – the emotion might be real, but she’s showing it intentionally. He doesn’t necessarily want to know the Russian’s purposes or intent. He busies himself with shoving the phone back in his pocket, where it can’t hurt anyone, and he thinks his hand might be trembling. He hopes not._

_“How many is that?” She asks when the silence has gone on too long to be comfortable for either of them. He runs a hand along the stubble of his jawline, settling his gaze on the wall behind her. He doesn’t want to answer._

_He knows what she thinks. What they all think._

_“Twenty-seven.” He grinds out and clenches his hands into fists at his side. At least that stops the trembling._

*

Phil doesn’t lose his composure once in the next two and a half weeks of searching. He is professional and courteous as ever, if only a bit more aloof. It’s difficult to pin him down – he’s often on phone calls with the search team in Burma, or in hushed meetings with Natasha or Jasper behind closed doors, or following leads himself so long as he remains within a sixty-mile radius.

Every lead is another dead end. Each time, he lets his hope swell in his chest (even if he keeps it hidden) – this will be it.

Clint is like a ghost, darting in and out of sight, dancing just out of reach every time Phil is certain he’s on his trail. Sometimes, he thinks he can hear the archer breathing in his air vent. He catches a glimpse of a solid shadow out of the corner of his eye.

He wakes in the middle of the night to grasp at air.

Two and a half weeks after his disappearance, they discover Clint’s body in a warehouse in Harlem. They almost miss it. The search is concentrated in Burma, for the most part, as SHIELD has monitored any and all movement in and out of the country. It’s purely by chance that some low-level agent is monitoring the police reports and Barton’s dental records pull a match.

Phil leaves work. Officially, he is the SHIELD liaison (read: babysitter) to the Avengers Initiative, and he is going to tell them their team member is gone. Halfway through the drive, he pulls off to the side of the road and stares at the dashboard for half an hour.

Clint Barton is dead.

He doesn’t cry. He isn’t sure if he should feel guilty for that or not. He thinks Clint wouldn’t want him to cry, wouldn’t want him to suffer. (But he is suffering, his insides have become rocks and his breathing is shallow and he thinks he is going to die). But his eyes remain dry, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel, and it takes him another fifteen minutes to pull back onto the road.

“Clint is dead.” Phil announces as he steps off the lift, because the words hurt inside his mind and he can’t stand to carry it alone anymore. Of course, saying it only makes it worse and his vision swims for just a moment. For a moment, there is only silence.

And then Natasha drops the knife she was sharpening on the table with a loud clang and leaves the room without a word.

“I think you’re mistaken, Agent.” Tony informs him, his feet propped on the coffee table and his face buried in a tablet. Phil is fairly certain his hands are shaking. “See, Bird Brains is tricky. He probably faked his own death for shits and gigs.”

“I am going to recover his body from the morgue in an hour.” Phil replies. He is surprised by how level his voice is, how straight and tall he stands. He wants to curl in on himself. Every breath is physically painful. “Stark. There’s a body. He’s dead.”

And then, before he can embarrass himself by falling to pieces in front of the Avengers, he turns on his heel and leaves.

*

_“Phil.” Natasha murmurs. He ignores her and slides down the wall, his thighs pressed against his chest. He wants to shout and rage at her. He wants to disappear. He wants – well. He can’t let himself think about what he really wants. What’s really happening here. So, instead, he sits in silence._

_Her gaze settles on him, heavy and unmoving. Finally, she crouches beside him. Her fingertips ghost over his shoulder, just brushing against the fabric of his suit. It takes him a moment to realize he isn’t sure if he wants to flinch away from her or lean into her touch._

_“Phil.” She repeats, her voice gentle. Finally, he lifts his gaze to her face. “It’s not real. Those calls – they’re not_ real _.”_

*

Phil isn’t sure what he was expecting. Perhaps a cruel trick of fate, or another loose end – for Clint to slip out of his grasp once more, and this to be an awful misunderstanding.

But it’s Clint Barton. Phil recognizes his hair, sticking out in tufts the way it always has after a night of tossing and turning without sleep. There is a dark purple ring around his throat (strangulation, he thinks absently, is not the worst way to go, considering the situation. And then he hates himself for even thinking it). One of his eyes is clearly bruised and swollen, his lip split and black with blood. Dead blood.

Blood looks different when you’re dead, black and congealed and something awful.

Phil blinks, just once, and then nods absently at the mortician, who looks horrified. Clint’s body has clearly been tortured in some capacity, though the archer would have considered this mild and almost boring. Phil has to bite back a hysterical laugh (and there’s the emotional break he’s been waiting for, almost four hours after discovering his lover is dead – he’s going to start laughing in the morgue with his fucking body).

Phil had just been thinking that he was grateful Clint hadn’t suffered much, and the mortician looks like this is one of the more grisly murders he’s seen.

“Yes. This is our boy.” Phil doesn’t laugh, thank God, but his lips twitch. “We’ll be sending a team to collect him.” If the mortician wants to know why they’re taking him, or why Phil can’t do it himself, he doesn’t say anything.

Phil can’t handle the thought of driving back to HQ with Clint Barton’s lifeless body in his backseat. Or, worse, his trunk.

He walks out alone, then, without waiting for the mortician to escort him out. He’s always been good at blending into the background, disappearing into crowds. For a long moment he considers it. Disappearing into civilian life. There are only three people that could evade SHIELD better than himself: Nick Fury, Natasha Romanoff, and- Well. Two people.

And then he pushes the thought away, and walks back to his car. He drives aimlessly for an hour, unable or unwilling to return to HQ, incapable of being alone in his apartment. Finally, he decides to stay in a hotel room for the night. He buys himself a bottle of wine (and, on second thought, a fifth of whiskey) on his way to the Embassy Suites.  

He spends his night getting very, very drunk. He doesn’t cry. He watches really, really awful reality TV (Clint got him started on the stuff, even though he tells – told – everyone it was the other way around). He laughs at inappropriate times, because laughing hurts less than collapsing, and he drinks most of the wine and half the whiskey.

The next morning, he shows up to work incredibly hungover. His hair is smoothed into place as usual, his suit trim and well-kept as ever. If anyone notices, they’re smart enough not to comment.

*

 _Phil swallows a protest. They_ are _real. But she won’t believe him, none of them fucking believe him. And she’s staring at him, pity and concern evident in her gaze. He wants to scream at her. He’s_ not _crazy. He’s not._

_He knows how it looks. The calls show up as outgoing, not incoming, in his call logs. They all lead to disconnected numbers, numbers that have been out of service for months or years. He only receives the calls when he is alone (in fact, the single time Natasha walked in on a call, it promptly ended and he was left standing like an idiot, his fist stuffed in his mouth)._

_But they are real. It’s Clint’s voice, scared and lonely and broken in his ear. And it’s Clint whispering, the air hissing between his lips, his wet breath gurgling in his breath. And it’s Clint screaming, wordless horrible shrieks that wake Phil in his dreams, haunting him days after the phone calls have ended. It’s_ real _._

_“I know, Natasha.” He tells her, forcing himself to his feet and straightening his suit. His voice is level, his jaw tight. “Of course I know.”_

*

Clint’s funeral is short and sweet. It’s not the way he would’ve wanted it to be, but Phil doesn’t have the energy or the desire to play Wham! or to hire male strippers (and he’s almost entirely certain that the archer was joking). The Avengers attend, Fury attends, Hill attends. Phil doesn’t contact Barney. He doesn’t search for any of Clint’s old contacts or friends (and he feels almost guilty, because no matter how much Clint denies it, he would have liked them to know).

Natasha sits beside him, watching him from the corner of her eye. (He wonders if she did the same for Clint at his own “memorial,” but banishes the thought immediately). Phil can’t really focus throughout the service. His mind is wandering, drifting between unfinished paperwork and laundry that still needs to be done and trying to remember if he took out the trash.

And Clint. The archer is always in the back of his mind, no matter how hard he tries to shove the thoughts away.

When the horrible affair is finally over, Phil climbs into his car without waiting for the others. He starts to drive but he passes HQ, and then he passes his apartment, and then he realizes that he doesn’t know where he’s going. Nick keeps telling him he doesn’t have to work this week, but Phil’s been planning on going in tomorrow. It doesn’t dawn on him until he’s four hours out of town that he’s not entirely sure he’s going back at all.

His sister calls him, and when that doesn’t work, texts him, demanding to know why he isn’t at her son’s seventh birthday party. He pulls off on the side of the road, and tries to think of a reasonable excuse. When that fails, he simply types, “Clint died.”

And then he shuts off his phone.

He’s gone for a week. He doesn’t do much for most of it. Drinks, much more than he should. Watches horrible reality TV. He contemplates suicide for a horrible half an hour, and then he eats a package of expired powdered donuts instead. He realizes absently that this must have been what it was like for Clint, those months ago, and a wave of guilt crashes over him.

Sometimes, he thinks he can hear Clint laughing. He runs the hotel shower for an hour and pretends his archer is in there. (He can almost hear him singing over the splash of water against the tile floor). He orders Clint’s favorites instead of his own, dresses in the shirt and sweats he stole from Clint’s drawer in the apartment. In one horrible moment, he calls Clint’s cell phone and leaves a rambling, drunken voicemail.

He doesn’t cry.

He thinks he should cry.

One week later, he returns to work without a word. No one asks where he went.

*

_She is about to say something else, and he isn’t sure what. He’s only sure he doesn’t want to hear it. He brushes past her without another word, making his way mechanically to his office because it’s safe there. (It’s sort of safe there). He knows his composure is starting to slip. He hasn’t shaved in three days, and his suit is still a bit rumpled. Even the junior agents give him a wide berth, and he can hear the whispers as they pass._

_“He went crazy when Barton died.” “I heard he thinks he’s still alive.” “Did you hear what he did-”_

_Phil ignores it. He slams his office door shut behind him, and the few pictures he has left on the walls rattle in their frames. He jerks his phone out of his pocket and considers, not for the first time, smashing it. Because then this would be over and no one would think he was crazy and –_

_He would never hear Clint’s voice again._

_Before he can make the decision, the phone buzzes in his hand. “Unknown number” flashes across the screen and Phil sucks in a breath before answering. “Hello?”_

_The answer is a wordless scream._

*

Phil is surprisingly good at compartmentalizing. He goes through his work day, same as ever. Nick offers him a new office, but he doesn’t accept. (And, yes, that might be a little fucked up, because Clint was more of a fixture between these four walls than his couch). He goes to his required psych sessions, and discusses Clint, but it feels distant and he is numb. He cleans out his junk food drawer (it was all for Clint, minus the powdered donuts, but he tosses the whole lot) and pretends that means he’s moving on.

At night, he can’t sleep. He paces his apartment, he’s starting watching infomercials (and buying the damn stuff, because Clint used to do that to piss him off), he cooks, he cleans. None of it distracts him.

He stills hasn’t cried, and he thinks there is something very wrong with that.

On one of these nights, three weeks after Clint’s death, he’s curled up on his couch with a mug of spiked tea, watching an infomercial for the “Sham-Wow!” (he’s already ordered three in the past week). He’s almost reciting along with the commercial, lips forming silent words.  
His phone rings.

He glances at the screen and almost ignores it. “Unknown Number” flashes across the screen, and he doesn’t want to deal with a telemarketer.  (Although, why a telemarketer would call at three in the morning is not a question he can answer. And he is aware of the hypocrisy, considering his foolish spending sprees of late). He’s just tipsy enough and lonely enough and self-destructive enough to answer.

“Hello?”

“Phil.” Clint’s voice gasps in relief on the other end. Phil drops his tea, spilling the hot liquid over his lap, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. He is still, waiting for the dream to be over, waiting to realize that he’s alone and Clint is dead and he’s hallucinating a fucking phone call.

“Clint?” He manages to croak out.

“Phil, oh my God, where are you?” Clint is spitting out words, panic clear in his voice. Phil tries to breathe. “It’s so dark here, Phil, where are you?”

“Oh God, Clint – no, you’re – you’re dead.” Phil manages to stammer.

“Phil, no, don’t you fucking – don’t leave me alone here!” There is movement in the background, wherever Clint is, and that almost makes it worse. He can hear the sharp intake of breath from his archer, the scrabble as he shifts wherever he is. “No, no, please, I need to talk to him, I need-”

The line goes dead.

Tears finally spill down his cheeks.


	2. Call it a Nervous Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Receiving phone calls from your dead lover doesn't mean you're having a nervous breakdown. Unfortunately, the Avengers and SHIELD management disagree.

The next morning, Phil decides it was a dream. When he checks his phone, there isn’t an unknown number flashed across the call log. There is only an outgoing call to a number he doesn’t recognize. For a brief moment, there is a stupid surge of hope in his chest. Because maybe he did talk to him, maybe it was real-

He presses the number. There is a loud horrible noise on the other end, followed by a mechanical woman informing him the number has been disconnected. He huffs out a sigh and stuffs his phone in his pocket.

Fucking idiot.

He arrives at work with a package of powdered donuts and shitty gas station coffee. Natasha, unsurprisingly, is waiting outside his office. These days there is always an Avenger around his office, arriving every day with worse and worse excuses. He wonders briefly if he is disappointing them by not having a break down.

It’s not that he isn’t in pain – on those rare occasions when he slows enough to allow his thoughts to catch up with him, it’s like he’s been gutted by Loki’s spear all over again. In those awful moments, he realizes he cannot breathe, not really, that he can’t think, can’t move, can’t imagine that he can last another fucking minute. Because Clint Barton is _dead_ , and he isn’t coming back. Not from this.

So he moves too fast for the grief to catch up to him. He takes on responsibility for half of the junior agents, and picks up extra assignments (even though he’s not technically allowed on ops until he’s cleared by psych, he’s found ways to get creative). And most of the time, he can outrun his sadness, can outrun the truth, with only this strange hollowness in his chest to show for it.

“Good morning, sir.” Natasha’s nose wrinkles in distaste and she takes his gas station coffee from him. She replaces it with a Starbucks cup he has no doubt she purchased specifically for him. “I have the Avengers’ reports for the incident in Orlando.”

“I remember the days when you knew protocol. Is there something wrong with my box, Agent Romanov?” He offers her a bland smile and takes a sip of his drink. It’s an Americano, which he likes well enough. (But Clint used to bring him hazelnut lattes and he misses the flavor. He doesn’t think he can handle the taste now).

“You know why I’m here.” She doesn’t bother trying to hide her reasoning as he unlocks his office door and steps into the painfully familiar space. “You should have let Fury switch your office.”

“This office has been sufficient for ten years, Agent Romanov. I fail to see why that should change now.” He specifically avoids the subject, crossing the room to settle behind his desk. There’s already a stack of nine reports settled to the side of his computer. It should be a busy day. Thank God.

That phone call still lingers in his mind.

He realizes he’s been sitting in silence for a few moments when he catches the look of concern on Natasha’s face. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, sir.” She replies, but her expression says otherwise.

“Then, as you can see, I’m very busy.” He gestures at the stack of files on his desk. Her green eyes flick to the manila folders, and her lips purse, but she’s always been good at knowing when she was dismissed.

*

_Clint is warm and solid beneath his fingers, delicately trailing over old scars he knows as well as the back of his hand. The archer has an arm thrown over his face, the silk sheets pooled around his waist, and he lets out a low groan of displeasure, trying to roll away from Phil’s probing fingers._

_“I didn’t get in until three last night.” He whines, making a half-hearted effort to swat his lover’s hand away. Phil laughs, low and warm, and shifts closer._

_“We have work today, Barton.” His lips brush against Clint’s earlobe. “Drinking with Tony Stark isn’t a good enough reason to call in sick.”_

_“You’re a slave driver.” Clint huffs, but he rolls over to capture Phil’s lips in a kiss. He still tastes a little like stale bourbon and salty peanuts, but the older man returns the kiss anyway. “Let’s skip work.”_

_“No, Clint.” And now it is Phil’s turn to try to squirm away, as Clint tries his damnedest to imitate and octopus and_ cling _to him_. _“You are insufferable.”_

*

It is 6:58 on a Tuesday evening, and Phil is alone in his office. He’s staying late to finish several accident reports on the junior agents (“They’re fucking useless, sir, honestly, maybe we should just adopt one as a pet and be done with the whole thing.” “No, Clint.”). It’s one of those horrible nights when his office is more oppressive than it is welcoming, and he’s starting to think he should just abandon the whole endeavor and go home. He’s fairly certain there’s a new episode of one of the Real Housewives tonight.

His phone rings.

It’s been three days since the call that was _not_ from Clint, so he doesn’t think much of it when he tilts the screen to read it. “Unknown Number,” it flashes at him, menacing, dangling a little flash of hope at him. He almost ignores it.

But he can’t. Just in case.

“Hello?” He asks after a beat of silence.

“Phil?” It’s Clint’s voice, oh God, it’s Clint’s voice. And he sounds terrified, scared out of his mind, and it’s all Phil can do to keep a level head. “Phil, where the fuck _are_ you?”

“I’m in – Clint, I’m in my office.” He sucks in a desperate breath. He realizes he’s grasping his pen so hard his knuckles are turning white.

“You’re coming for me, right?” The archer demands, and there is a strange scraping sound in the background. Phil tries not to think about what that might be. “Phil, you’re coming for me, you always come for me. I’m just – hurry up, okay? This fucking sucks.”

“Clint – I – you’re dead.” He stammers as he tries to find the right words. He wants to assure him that he is, in fact, looking for him. That he is doing his damnedest to find him, and he will search until the minute he finds a body.

Except that they already buried a body. It was Clint’s body. Phil identified him, for Christ’s sake. Every scar matched (excluding several newer marks), the little compass tattooed just beneath his shoulder blade, it was all there. It was Clint’s body.

“Do I sound dead?” There is a flash of the man he loves, the man he knows. “Fucking hell, Phil, you have to come for me. You can’t leave me here.”

“I won’t.” Phil murmurs uselessly.

“Promise?”

“Of course.”

“Great, I lo-”

The phone call ends. Phil drops it to the desk and shoves his chair back, sucking in a breath.

One time is understandable. He’s been through a lot, losing his lover like this, and it’s enough to make anyone a little off. He was drinking that night, his tea was spiked (even if he hadn’t had very much), and it makes sense that he would imagine something like that.

The second occurrence can only mean he’s in the middle of a mental breakdown.

He doesn’t have time for a mental breakdown.

After a long beat, he carefully lifts his phone and shoves it in his pocket. He doesn’t check his call log. He doesn’t close the report on his desk, or throw away his half-empty Starbucks cup. He leaves his suit jacket slung over the chair, and mechanically leaves his office.

He isn’t sure why he thinks things will be better at home. They never are, these days.

*

_“C’mon, sir, we can stay home and have sex all day and order a pizza.” Clint nuzzles his ear now, voice scratchy with sleep, his hands crawling up beneath Phil’s t-shirt. His handler doesn’t bother to swat his hands away. He just sighs dramatically and tries to sit up. It is a surprisingly difficult task with Clint Barton literally wrapped around him._

_“Get off me.”_

_“Not until you agree to stay home and have sex with me.”_

_“We have to_ work _.” Phil points out, but his stern expression collapses into a small smirk as Clint nestles closer to his chest. “Barton, we are going to work today, no matter how hungover you are.”_

_And Clint is kissing his neck, and his calloused fingers brush over Phil’s nipple, and a strangled gasp escapes his throat. He can feel the archer grin against his neck before nipping at the skin at that particularly sensitive spot just under his ear. “What’s that you were saying about work, sir?”_

_“We don’t have time for this right now, Clint, you overslept-”_

_“We can be late.”_

*

Phil sucks in a breath as the fifth call is disconnected abruptly, as abruptly as all the others. He’s received one every day since the second call. He’s fairly certain he’s halfway through a nervous breakdown, so he doesn’t say anything. All the same, the lines are starting to show.

Now, for example. His hands won’t stop trembling. He isn’t entirely sure why. He’s always had nerves of steel. He once spent an hour and a half convincing a junkie – under the influence of meth, by the way – not to kill him or his fellow operative. Afterwards, his partner was in psych for a month and he went to get ice cream.

Nervous breakdowns do not happen to Phillip J. Coulson.

He jams his phone in his pocket at the sound of footsteps behind him. It takes him a moment (too long, really, he’s slipping) to rearrange his face into a neutral expression, and then he turns. Steve and Natasha look at him,.

“Is there something I can do for you?” His voice doesn’t waver. He’s actually a little proud of that, because it’s all he can do not to run screaming from the room. Natasha’s gaze is far too knowing, and she bridges the distance to brush his hair back into place.

Something in that movement tells him she is aware he might be having a nervous breakdown.

But it’s too late for nervous breakdowns. Clint has been dead for almost a month now, and he likes to think he would have fallen to pieces at the beginning if he was going to at all. He knows his therapist (whom he is still required to see) would tell him that there are no rules to mental health. That he has suffered a great loss, and he should not judge himself for how he handles it.

“Agent Coulson?” Steve’s voice breaks his thoughts, and Phil turns a raised brow to him. “Did you – um, Natasha – she asked you a question.” And now he’s somehow put that horribly concerned look on Captain America’s face. Honestly, he isn’t sure how much more he can take.

“I’m sorry, Agent Romanov. It’s been a very busy couple of days, and I haven’t had caffeine yet today.” He flashes them his best bland smile – nothing to see here, nothing special – and moves to brush past them. Natasha places a hand on his shoulder, and he shoots her an incredulous look. “I have work to do.”

“You’ve stayed late every night this week.” She counters, her gaze serious. “And you’ve been coming in earlier and earlier. I think you could use a day off.”

“I don’t take days off.” Phil replies, and there is an edge to his voice, an edge he doesn’t normally use with her. Before he can let himself feel guilty for it, he pushes past both of them and locks himself in his office. He doesn’t come out until well after eight o’clock that night, when almost everyone else has gone home.

*

_Clint lets out little gasping moans beneath him, fingers scrambling to grasp the sheets as Phil moves in him. The older man buries his head in the crook of the archer’s neck, sticky with sweat, his breathing ragged and desperate. One hand is buried in Clint’s hair, the other grasping his hip firmly, and he thrusts again._

_Clint feels incredible around him, warm and tight and the friction is almost too much, he’s never going to last._

_“You’re so good.” It’s barely a gasped whine from his asset’s lips, his own hips rocking in rhythm to Phil’s own movements. “You’re so fucking good, I love you, I love you, I-“ And then it is lost to rambling that doesn’t quite form words, just a needy, endless murmur._

_Phil sees white when he comes._

*

After the fifteenth call, Phil decides he might not be insane. He knows it doesn’t exactly make sense, but he’s receiving two calls a day as of two days ago. It’s _Clint_ , it’s absolutely Clint, and he knows even his subconscious is not cruel enough (or maybe creative enough) to imagine the desperation and fear in the other man’s voice. He knows in his bones that the archer is alive and that he needs him. He’s not willing to risk Clint on the chance that it’s all in his head.

Never mind the body. Never mind the fact that the calls are always outgoing on his call log. Never mind that every number is disconnected. The inconsistencies don’t change that singular, desperate knowledge.

Clint has to be alive.

“What’s all this about?” Stark props his feet on the conference table, earning an annoyed glance from Steve. The billionaire blows him a kiss and settles more comfortably into his chair. (This is the part where Clint jumps in and demands to know when they’ll just fuck and get it over with. Clint isn’t here.)

It’s now or never. Phil feels an uncharacteristic twinge of nervousness flutter in his stomach. These people – these _heroes_ – have put their trust in him. He doesn’t want to jeopardize that. He doesn’t want to lead them astray. He doesn’t want to lose their respect.

“Agent Barton is alive.” He is pleasant surprised by how very level his voice is. There is a long beat of silence, and he catches Natasha exchanging a concerned glance with Steve. He sucks in a soft breath and carefully wipes the emotion from his face. “I have received fifteen phone calls in the last two weeks from an unknown number. I have spoken with Agent Barton on each of these occasions.”

The silence is different now. There is a quiet tension there. No one wants to hope. But Agent Coulson has never steered them wrong. He always has more intel, a more level head, and a better plan than anyone else in the room. (He’s not entirely sure the same applies to Phil, especially with the added stress of a dead lover.) And, in this line of business, is coming back from the dead so strange?

Phil did it, once, if he recalls.

“Have we traced the calls?” Steve interrupts the silence, shifting seamlessly into his role as team leader. It’s one of the things Phil likes most about the man – he will immediately take action, even without proof. In this case, it could save Clint’s life.

(Except Clint is still dead.)

“They can’t be traced.” The handler replies after a beat. Natasha arches a brow at him, and he forces himself to continue. “After the call, they appear as outgoing calls. All to disconnected numbers.” The room is still, sympathetic gazes directed toward him. “I am fully aware that this sounds unbelievable. If I believed the calls were anything but real, I wouldn’t have come to you.”

“Sir, considering the situation-” Natasha begins, but he cuts her off.

“I am aware of my emotional involvement, Agent Romanov.” The words are clipped. “I am also aware that, on the off chance I’m right, we have a chance to right a wrong.”

“That’s a StarkPhone.” Tony says bluntly. “There’s no tech in the world that can hack it like that.” Phil wants to deck him, but he forces himself to give a calm nod.

“I’m aware of that.”

“You’re under a lot of stress.” Steve pushes to his feet and places a gentle hand on Phil’s shoulder. It feels like lead. “After Bucky died, I thought – I thought I saw him all the time. Out of the corner of my eye. Or I’d hear his voice behind me in the middle of a battle. It was awful. It doesn’t make you any less.”

“I’m not making it up.” Phil insists.

Steve gives him a tiny squeeze and a knowing smile.

*

_Clint sprawls across the bed in sweat, post coital bliss, one arm resting lazily across Phil’s stomach. “Are you reconsidering stay in all day?”_

_“No.” Phil replies with a wry grin. “We’re going to take a shower and show up an hour late. And you’re going to be happy about it, Barton.”_

_“You’re ridiculous.” The archer huffs, but pushes himself up to catch Phil’s lips in a chaste kiss. “I know you’re coming for me.”_

_“What?” Phil glances at him, confusion evident on his face. Clint frowns and pulls away from him, crossing his arms over his chest._

_“You’re coming for me. You’re not going to leave me there, are you?”_

_“You’re right here, Clint.” He reminds him uneasily._

_“You’ve given up, haven’t you?” Clint’s face goes cold, and Phil can’t decide if he’s terrified or furious. “What the fuck, Phil? You_ promised _you would never abandon me! And I’m out there, I’m fucking dying, and you can’t be bothered to miss a day of work to come get me out of there?”_

_“You’re dead.” Phil doesn’t realize the words are true until he’s saying them. “No, Clint, you’re dead. I would never abandon you.”_

_“You just did.” And suddenly it’s Clint’s body, cold and lifeless in his bed, mouth opened in a silent scream, bloody and battered and Phil scrambled backwards, a wordless shout escaping his lips, and no no no no no, this isn’t real, this isn’t-_

_Phil wakes with a start and sucks in a miserable breath._

_It’s the third time he’s had that dream._

*

Nick fixes him with a concerned look before he gestures to the chair across from him. Jasper and Maria are here, too, so this can’t be anything good. Phil remembers his botched meeting with the Avengers and forces himself not to grimace as he takes a seat. Maria’s wearing her best poker face, but Jasper is openly worried, his brow furrowed as he takes in Phil’s appearance.

And he’ll admit, it’s slipping. A little. He didn’t shave this morning, because he overslept (because he got a phone call at 4:43 AM, and he couldn’t sleep after listening to Clint scream). His hair is slightly disheveled, and he automatically moves to smooth it into place. The usual perfect knot of his tie is just slightly lopsided.

Overall, he’s still a damn sight better than the majority of SHIELD, including Jasper, thank you very much.

“Agent Coulson, it has come to my attention that you are under the impression that Agent Barton is alive.” Nick doesn’t waste time with preambles or niceties. Phil respects that. “More importantly, you believe he is contacting you, even though your phone records clearly show otherwise.”

“Yes, sir.”

He considers denying it, he really does, but he fails to see the point. Nick can see through a lie a mile away, and if he’s got any chance of finding Clint, he’ll need the other man’s help. There is an awful beat of silence in the room, and Jasper shakes his head, slowly.

“You saw the body, Phil.” The other man’s voice is soft. “Clint is dead. I’m sorry for your loss, you know I am, but denying it won’t fix it.”

Phil blinks, once, and he realizes that they think he’s losing it. He doesn’t blame them – he thought the same thing, a week ago. But  it’s real, and he’s sure of it, and he doesn’t want them fighting him the whole way. So this time, he lies, and he uses his real emotion to sell it. He thinks absently that Natasha would be proud.

“I know.” His voice breaks, just slightly, because it fucking hurts. The idea that he is wrong and Clint is dead (which he half-believes) is repellent. “I know, he’s gone.” His hands clench into fists. “I just – maybe I need a week off.” He shrugs. “It’s… overwhelming. I’ve tried to bury it all under work, and it isn’t working. No matter what I try, it’s not working.”

None of it is technically untrue, even if he’s manipulating the words to suit his own purpose. Nick gives him a critical look, and Phil absently wonders if he oversold it. But none of them have seen him truly hopeless, and he’s pretty damn close anyway, so he’s not going to retract it.

It’s Jasper, in the end, that saves him from Nick Fury’s scrutiny. “I think that’d be good for you, Phil.” The relief is evident in his voice. “I know you took off for a week after the funeral, but you need time _now_. Now that it’s sinking in.”

“Yes.” Phil agrees with the smallest nod he can manage. “I suppose I do.”

“I’ll submit the paperwork to HR.” Maria volunteers. She likes him well enough, for her, and she needs him to stay functional. She’ll do what it takes. Nick glances between them, his lips curling into an unpleasant grin.

“I’m sure a week off will sort you out.” Phil thinks he can hear sarcasm there, or maybe just a little irony, but either way, he doesn’t mind. Nick’s accepted his lame as hell explanation when the truth is far too complicated to explain.

“I completely agree, sir.” Phil nods.

Later, when he’s in his apartment, he realizes he has no fucking idea where to start looking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the overwhelming response! I'm going to try to start responding to reviews, but I work full time (on top of a myriad of other things that basically keep me busy most of the time). So be patient. Please know that I read and appreciated every comment. It honestly means so much to me that you all enjoy this idea and my writing. 
> 
> Okay, so, that aside: I'm going to be able to update this once a week, I think. Which makes me happy. I write out a lot of it by hand first, so it may sometimes take longer. It's just the process that works for me. However, I have actually worked out a decent outline of genuine plot. I'm guessing this will be between six and seven chapters long, but don't hold me to that! 
> 
> Anyway, yeah. Your feedback is greatly appreciated and really motivating. I look forward to reading what you guys have to say.
> 
> Also - things get worse for Phil before they get better. Sorry all. (But I think I can picture a happy ending, so cool?).


	3. Call it a Lie

Phil has a plan when he wakes up the next morning, and he tries very hard to ignore the vague sense of fatalistic familiarity when he finally sets to work. The last thing he wants to think about it before. He doesn’t want to remember chasing leads that crumbled in his grasp and feeling some phantom version of Clint dance just out of reach every time he turned a corner. So, naturally, it’s the only thing he can think about.

He begins with his phone and that damn call log, because he isn’t sure where else to look. Most of the outgoing calls are to different numbers (hell, most of them are in different area codes, and he’s next to certain that the numbers themselves aren’t going to give him any real clues). One number does come up three times, so he flags it and makes a mental note to call in one of his in one of his many favors with a friend at the FBI. They can at least trace it back to its owner before it was disconnected. He hopes.

Once that’s complete, he opens his laptop and pulls up Clint’s file. His gaze is immediately drawn to that awful red word: “Deceased.” For a moment, he feels as though he’s taken a blow to the chest. He can’t breathe, can’t make himself think properly. And then the moment passes, and he shifts through the file to try to find information about SHIELD’s continuing investigation into his capture and apparent death.

(It’s not true, he reminds himself. It’s not true, and he’s the only one that knows it.)

He isn’t surprised to find that Nick has continued the search for whomever is responsible. No one likes it when a SHIELD operative is taken down, and the idea that someone could nab Clint Barton out from under their noses is an ego bruise if nothing else. As he peruses the file, he realizes two things. One, his access has been limited to this file. That’s a minor annoyance (and one he can easily get around – he has Jasper’s log-in committed to memory, and he could easily hazard a guess at Nick’s). It does, however, lead him to his second conclusion.

They’ve got a lead. They’ve got _something_ , at least, or they wouldn’t bother locking him out.

It’s the first time he feels like he can actually _do_ this since he decided to try. Rather than arouse their suspicions (he has no doubt that they’ll be observing him, one way or another, in the first few days of his leave), he logs out of his account and closes his laptop. It’s been awhile since he tried to do any sort of legwork without SHIELD’s backup.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t handle it.

*

_“Come on.” Phil glances at the archer, half asleep in the passenger seat, arms crossed lazily over his chest. He stirs, slightly, and peers blearily out the window at the shitty gas station in the middle of nowhere. Phil has to force himself not to reach out and absently smooth down his hair._

_“We’re here?” He blinks at Phil, a sleepy half-grin tugging at his lips._

_“You wish. It’s your turn to drive.” Phil replies. He steps out of the car and stretches the joints in his back cracking. He’s getting too old for these extended road trips. Granted, most seem to follow the same theme as this one – work. It’s not like he can request exemption for old age. Nick would laugh him out of his office. “I’ll buy snacks. Come on.”_

_Clint slips out of the car (no annoying signs of old age, the lucky bastard) and offers him a wide grin. “Buying me dinner, sir? You’re too kind.”_

*

On his fifth day off of work, Phil goes to visit the grave.

He hasn’t gotten as much done as he’d hoped. The single number he had to trace belonged to a man from Kentucky that went missing two months before Clint. Of course, the moment Phil allowed himself to believe that was a lead, he received the police report on the matter. Guy with really bad credit and a gambling addiction – the police had guessed he’d run off and stopped paying his bill, and Phil is inclined to agree with them.

It’s not that he’s giving up. He’s not. He just doesn’t know where to turn, and there’s no one that will help him. He’s fairly certain if he so much as mentions the idea again, they’ll double up his therapy sessions at the very least (knowing Nick, his access to SHIELD resources will also be severely limited).

And so he goes to the grave, because he doesn’t know what else to do and he _misses_ Clint. Misses him with every fiber of his being. He’s getting too wound up again, stressed and tense and overly focused. (Clint would fix that, he thinks absently, by throwing his shoe at his computer or stealing his donuts or making a general nuisance of himself).

When he stands at the grave, it all feels very real again. He can remember Clint’s body in the coffin, still and made up to look as if he were sleeping. He can remember dropping a handful of dirt over it, along with the Avengers and Nick and Jasper, and there is a pang in his chest. When he stands here, the idea that Clint is still alive somewhere feels…

Silly. Pathetic. Insane.

He’s brought a six-pack of Clint’s favorite beer. He isn’t sure why. He hasn’t really been drinking since those first awful weeks. It seems like an appropriate salute to the archer, even if he isn’t entirely certain that he’s dead. He settles onto the ground, mindless of the dirt that’s sure to stain his suit, and opens two beers. He pours half of the first into the ground beside him. It feels ridiculous, and he could almost laugh at himself, except it also feels… appropriate. It’s the closest he can get to sharing a beer.

“You are causing me a hell of a lot of trouble.” He informs the gravestone as he sips at his own drink. The headstone does not reply. Phil isn’t sure why that disappoints him. This entire situation feels ridiculous enough that he’d rather speak to a ghost than himself. “And when I get you back, you’re benched for at least six months.”

He sits in silence after that, sipping his beer, listening to birds chirp overhead and wishing that he’d thought to bring lunch. He feels almost at peace here (and that worries him, because maybe this is Clint’s body and that’s why he’s feeling okay and _fuck_ that is a bad thought). Before he can lose himself completely to absent thoughts, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

“Phil.” It’s Clint’s voice on the other end. He hadn’t expected any less.

“I’m looking for you, Clint.” His voice is soft, and he sort of hunches forward. He wishes it were more true. “I’m going to find you, I promise, I’ll find you. Just hang on a little longer.”

“I can do that.” He isn’t sure if he’s imagining the relief in Clint’s voice, in that weak little laugh.

“How are you calling me?” Phil asks the question he’s avoided this entire time. It’s the only question that can poke a hole in this story, prove that Phil’s fucking insane, and he hasn’t wanted that proof. But now he needs it.

There is silence on the other end for a long moment.

“I think she wants me to call you.” Clint’s voice is low and hurried, as if he knows sharing this information will cut the conversation short. “Sometimes I wake up and there’s this phone here and the only calls that’ll go through are-”

The call goes silent. Phil sucks in a breath and shoves his phone into his pocket. He isn’t sure how much longer he sits there, sipping beer, trying to think.

Clint had said “she.”

*

_Phil goes for his usual terrible choice of gas station food when he’s on the road – powdered donuts and beef jerky. He’s lucky he’s got a fast metabolism and a job that requires a lot of physical activity, because his diet is worse now than it was in college and that’s saying something. What he really wants is a package of peanut M &M’s to accompany the donuts, but he needs the protein and the energy._

_Clint wanders around the gas station aimlessly, in that loose, comfortable way he has. He’s always like this on ops, cool and collected, and Phil wonders absently how much of it is forced. Once he’s made his selections (along with a cup of shitty coffee), he slips down an aisle and stands at Clint’s side. Then he glances down at what’s in the archer’s hands._

_“No.”_

_Clint shoots him an amused glance. “Kinda the pot calling the kettle black, y’know.” He gestures at Phil’s powdered donuts and beef jerky with his own junk food. But the thing is, he’s got the coconut donuts. Those are_ terrible _. Phil knows. He’s tried them. He’s also got a package of Sour Skittles, and he’s eyeing a bottle of RC with more speculation than it deserves._

_“You have terrible taste.” Phil decides, and when Clint laughs, it’s loud and warm and fills the air of a shitty gas station in Washington at three in the morning._

*

When he returns to work that Monday, he very much looks the part of a man that has collected himself. He is cleanly and meticulously shaved without a single hair out of place, and he’s made sure that his suit is as pristine as ever. He offers familiar bland smiles and predictable annoyed sighs as he makes his way through HQ. He can feel the collective relief – whatever insanity gripped Agent Phil Coulson in the past few weeks has clearly dissipated.

Phil locks his door behind him once he reaches his office, and restocks his junk food drawer with powdered donuts, strawberry Poptarts, and a couple of bags of peanut M&M’s. Then, after a beat of hesitation, he drops a package of those disgusting coconut donuts and a bag of Sour Skittles in with the rest.

It looks familiar and comforting and for a moment it is easier to breathe. When he’d stopped by the usual gas station to make his purchases that morning, the familiar clerk had given him a knowing grin. “About time you came back here. I was starting to think you convinced that boyfriend of yours to eat less of this shit.” Phil had laughed and ignored the pang in his chest at the assumption.

He shuts the drawer and moves to unlock his drawer. The stack of reports on his desk is much smaller than it should be. He knows without asking that Nick has split the majority of his work between Jasper and Maria until he decides that Phil is sane again, whenever that may be. It’s just as well, he thinks absently as he tugs a report toward himself. He needs time to work on finding Clint Barton, after all.

Natasha slips into his office an hour later when he is halfway through a 913HN Requisition Form. She eyes him speculatively as she settles on his couch across from him, folding her legs gracefully beneath herself.

“You went to the cemetery.” She says finally.

“Yes.” Phil agrees mildly as he marks a box. “I did. I brought beer.”

“I know.” A smile ghosts across her lips for just a moment. “He’d have liked that, I think.”

It takes Phil a moment to remember he shouldn’t correct her. Clint _will_ like that, when Phil tells him, and he’ll probably whine that no one played some ridiculous song at the funeral. (The last time they discussed it, his song of choice was “Peacock,” by Katy Perry, and Phil seriously doubts that would have been appropriate).

“Yes. He would have.” Phil finally agrees without glancing up from him form.

“I know this is…” Natasha trails off, her voice small, and he knows he is being giving a glimpse into some genuine, rare side of her. He wishes he could appreciate that, her vulnerability, but he can’t. “I’ve never seen you like this, Phil.” She finally decides.

“I’m better now.” He responds without hesitation, finally allowing himself to glance up and meet her gaze.

Her expression is neutral, almost bored, but she is pale. There are dark circles under her eyes, and the hint of crow’s feet in the corner of them. He realizes, not for the first time, that this is her loss, too. Before he can say anything else, she unfolds herself from the couch with the grace of a ballerina.

“You can lie to them, but not to me.” She doesn’t sound angry or sad or even annoyed. He thinks, for just a moment, he can catch a hint of resignation in her tone. But then she leaves his office without a backward glance, and the moment is gone.

*

_“You disgust me.” Phil informs Clint seriously as they deposit their purchases on the counter. The clerk, an older woman with salt-and-pepper hair, glances between them._

_“Don’t knock it till you try it.” Clint counters cheerfully, surprisingly perky for someone that was asleep twenty minutes ago. “Oh, shit, gum. We need gum. Especially if we’re eating beef jerky.”_

_“I wasn’t aware you were getting beef jerky. Because that is my beef jerky.” Phil replies pleasantly, drumming his finger on the counter. Clint offers him a wicked grin, and he nearly groans. He knows what’s coming-_

_“I don’t think you have any qualms about sharing your beef.” He laughs as he shifts back toward the aisle in search of cinnamon gum (because it’s the only kind he’ll chew)._

_“You have thirty seconds until I leave you here.” Phil calls back absently, thumbing at an Us Weekly. It’s not a great purchase, but it’ll give him a semblance of his reality TV fix until they return to normal civilization._

*

Phil has spent his morning locked in one of the tech rooms, using their equipment to attempt to record and trace one of the phone calls. The line had disconnected about ten seconds before the system could get a lock on it (though he had a sneaking suspicion it would have come up with nothing), but he’s got a recording he can listen to.

That plan is derailed the moment he opens his office door.

“Phil.” Jasper’s voice is more serious than he’s heard it in years (and more than a little sympathetic). It sets him more on edge than the fact that the other man is in his office, waiting for him.

“What can I do for you, Jasper?” Phil asks as he moves into the office. His gaze settles on the package of coconut donuts in the agent’s lap, and he struggles to suppress a sigh. “Is there some sort of rule against junk food that I haven’t been made aware of?”

“These are for Clint.” Jasper replies, his voice tight. Phil doesn’t bother insisting that they’re from before all this – he has no doubt that one of them, Nick or Jasper (or even Natasha), went through his desk while he was gone. “Phil, you’re still – you can’t do this to yourself.”

“I’ve grown to like them.” He replies with a faint shrug, crossing the room to settle behind his desk. “Clint was right – it’s an acquired taste.”

“Don’t.” The other man shakes his head. “You’re lying to me. You’ve been lying to all of us, Phil, and we’ve let it slide. We’re an intelligence organization, we’re not stupid.” Phil opens his mouth to protest, but Jasper presses on. “We know the resources you’ve been using. Poking into that investigation, calling in favors with the FBI, tracing phone calls _you’re_ making?” He shakes his head, concern creasing his brow. “This isn’t _harmless_ anymore. You’re falling apart.”

“I am not.” The words are sharper than he intends, but Jasper doesn’t seem offended.

“You’ve worn the same tie every day this.” It takes Phil a moment to realize that’s true. “You’ve sent me the same e-mail five times in the past two days. You missed a meeting with the Avengers this morning. An important, strategic meeting.”

“Oh.” Phil leans back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap as he considers his next move.

“I get it, Phil.” Jasper’s voice is low now. “You’ve lost someone – hell, I don’t know what I’d do if my wife died, and we aren’t tied together the way you and Clint were. I get it.” When Phil doesn’t respond, he lets out a faint sigh. “He’s dead, Phil. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you lost him. But he’s gone.”

“Do you ever _know_ something?” Phil answers after a beat, running a tired hand over his face. “There’s no reason for you to believe it. No reason for it to be true. But you do, you can feel it in your bones. That’s – I know Clint is alive. I _know_ he is, I can feel it. And I can’t abandon him.”

“Phil. I checked.” Jasper’s voice is sympathetic again, and something twists in Phil’s gut. “After you – look, you’re not the type to lose your cool over nothing. I know that. I had the exume the body three days ago. To check the DNA.” Phil holds his breath, but he knows he isn’t waiting for good news. “It was a match. Even – even degraded the way it was, they knew it was Clint.”

Phil lets out his breath in a soft sigh, and leans back in his chair. “I get it, Jasper. I get it.”

After that, they don’t say anything at all. It takes Jasper half an hour to leave his office, still shooting a concerned glance as he shuts the door behind him. Twenty minutes later, he receives an e-mail from Nick that they’ve upped his therapy session to twice a week and he’s to start seeing a psychiatrist as well.

Later, when he’s listening to the recording, and there is only the sound of his own voice and static, he realizes that he has to’ve been wrong all along.

Clint Barton is dead and Phil Coulson is going mad.

*

_“How long have you been together?” The woman behind the counter asks pleasantly as she begins to ring up their purchases. Phil pauses, for just a moment, because well – they aren’t really together. They’ve slept together a handful of times, but they’ve never talked about it. It just… happens._

_Phil is saved from answering by Clint slamming down a pack of Stride cinnamon, a wide grin on his face. “Six or seven months, haven’t really kept track.” The archer replies cheerfully._

_“You’re good together.” The clerk – her name tag reads Mary – informs them with a smile. And Clint shoots Phil an amused glance, snagging a small pack of condoms from beneath the desk and shoving them into the mess of their purchases._

_“Yeah, we are.”_

_And apparently Phil is in a relationship._

*

“I know he’s dead.” Phil informs Natasha. She’s curled on the couch in his apartment, a glass of vodka in her hands, and he is bent over his own drink. “But he keeps – I keep getting the phone calls. I swear to God, I’m not calling out. My phone fucking rings.”

It’s the first time in recent history he’s truly lost his composure in front of her. (The last, Clint was in the ICU and Phil was high on pain meds). She doesn’t seem surprised or sympathetic, which he likes. She just nods absently.

“Stark’s tech can’t be hacked.” She points out, but it isn’t combative or pitying. It’s a simple observation, and he can’t help but feel like she’s presenting him with a problem to solve rather than a dead end.

“Right.” Phil nods, and gulps down the rest of his vodka. It’s the good stuff, Russian and strong, and he allows Natasha to pour him another glass even though he’s already well on his way to being drunk. “Okay, so, can’t be hacked. But maybe it’s deficient. Or maybe Stark’s not as smart as he thinks he is.”

“I’d bet on the second one.” Natasha’s lips curl into a smile, and Phil surprises himself by laughing. “Stark’s probably wrong. There’s a way to hack it. So. Someone’s calling you, and pretending to be Clint. That’s fucked up.”

“Yes. It is.” Phil agrees after a beat, even though he wants to tell her she’s wrong. When he’s speaking to Clint on the phone, it’s _him_ through and through. He would know an imposter. He’s sure of that. But it doesn’t need to be argued, because she seems on board for the first time since this entire thing started. “How’d they get my cell number?” His words are just on the wrong side of slurred, tired and sad, and he takes another burning sip of vodka so he won’t care.

“I don’t know.” Natasha kicks at his leg, and he glances at her. “You can’t solve this tonight, and you’re drunk.”

“Not yet.”

“Yes, you are, Phil.”

They sit in amiable silence for a moment, each nursing their drinks, each lost to thoughts that can’t quite be put into words. And then he sighs, softly. “I don’t know what to think anymore, Natasha.”

It’s the last thing he remembers saying, though the way she acts around him in the following days tell him he said much more.

Three days later, she runs into him when he’s unshaven and tired and just coming off of a very frustrating phone call with Clint (or Not Clint or whoever the fuck he’s been talking to).

“Did you get another one?”

“… Yeah.”

“How many is that?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Phil. Phil. It’s not real. Those calls – they’re not _real_.”

“I know, Natasha. Of course I know.”

But when he answers the phone to a wordless scream minutes later, all he can think is that she’s wrong and this is real and Clint is going to die _again_ because Phil can’t save him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that brings us back to the italicized scene in the first chapter, only without all the detail. All the little plot pieces are finally coming together, and I think I know where this is going. So there's that. Thank you all so much for the positive reviews and feedback. It's hard for me to reply to everyone, but I do try to reply when I have time.
> 
> This chapter gave me hell, so sorry if it's a little rougher around the edges. I think I know where I'm going with the next one, so hopefully I can update a little sooner. Thanks for reading and thank you for the feedback. Genuinely, I appreciate it.


	4. Interrogation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that there is a passing reference to non-con sort of! I don't want you to be triggered by anything!

"You look like shit.”

Jen (not Jennifer, God forbid Jenny) informs him as she brushes past him into his apartment. Phil considers protesting, but he has a feeling his eldest sister will ignore him either way. He shifts out of the way and she bustles in, shoving one of the two Starbucks coffees into his hands.

“Nice to see you too.” Phil murmurs, following her to his _own_ kitchen. And it should bother him that she’s here, but he can’t bring himself to care too terribly much. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Sammy’s soccer game or a PTA meeting?”

“You haven’t called me back in over a month.” Jen replies without missing a beat, leaning into the counter with a frown that would shame their mother. “Jesus, I’ve left you so many messages. You can’t just tell me your boyfriend _died_ and then disappear like that.”

“The situation is more complicated than I originally anticipated.” Phil replies after a beat, and then takes a sip of his scalding coffee. He’s already expecting her reaction – disbelief, pity, concern. When he glances up, she merely looks thoughtful. It takes him a moment to remember that, to her, he is not Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD. He is Phil, the HR manager of a small security firm.

Assuming she believes that cover story, of course.

“Everything with you is complicated.” She finally announces, sipping at her own coffee. “But I wasn’t kidding before. When was the last time you shaved?”

“Day before yesterday.” Phil shoots her an annoyed glance. “It’s a Sunday. Sometimes, people don’t shave on the weekends.”

“You always look like a fucking secret agent, Phil.” Jen huffs a sigh and he resists the urge to giggle inappropriately. (Clint would giggle inappropriately).

“I’m allowed to slum it a little. Like you said, my boyfriend died.” He replies drily, ignoring the way his chest clenches at that stupid sentence.

“I thought it was complicated.” She challenges, but her grin doesn’t reach her eyes. “Phil, you didn’t even tell me about the funeral. You haven’t answered your phone, I’ve come by here three times and you’ve completely blown me off. I’m worried about you.”

“You called Mom, didn’t you?”

“Jesus, of course I did!” She glares at him, and he feels a twinge of guilt. He’s been acting selfishly. (What else is new?). “Phil, your boyfriend died and you fucking disappeared. I thought you had killed yourself, or run off to Morocco, or -“

“I get it.” He holds up his hands in surrender, and she fixes him with a critical look. “I’ve messed up a lot in the past month and a half. I know. I’m sorry. Things have been… difficult. Without Clint.”

And just like that, her expression softens. She looks so much like their mother it takes his breath away. And then he is suddenly enveloped in her arms, and he can feel tears pricking at his eyes. Stupid tears, really, because he is Agent Phil Coulson or maybe HR Manager Phil Coulson and neither of those men cry.

“I’m so sorry, Phil.” Jen’s voice is soft, and he finally allows himself to collapse against her.

*

_“Get your cold feet off me, Barton.” Phil grouses, trying to roll away, but the archer simply presses them harder against his calves. “Goddammit, I’m not going to let you stay here anymore.”_

_“Yes you are.” Clint’s voice is rough with sleep, and he curls closer, curling his cold toes against Phil’s skin. He groans and flops his head back against the pillow, and the archer lets out a husky lcaugh. “You’re stuck with me and my cold toes.”_

_“Wear_ socks _.”_

_“Who wears socks to bed?” Clint huffs, and Phil can’t help a small chuckle. “Besides you, I mean. I always knew you were weird.”_

_“_ I’m _weird? Coming from you?”_

_“Excuse you, that is uncalled for.” Clint kicks him, and Phil catches his leg between his own. The archer rolls onto him, laughing, and Phil thinks he might be in love._

*

“Word on the street is you’ve lost your marbles.”

Phil might grudgingly admit, on occasion, that he likes Tony Stark. Today is not one of those occasions. He has a headache, he’s just ended another fucking phone call, and he’s just realized he forgot to shower this morning. Stark offers him a smirk, and drops onto his couch with a flourish.

“Thank you for your input.” Phil replies dryly after a beat, running his hand along his jawline to feel the spot he missed while shaving. Damn it. “I have work to do, so make this quick.”

“You _are_ crazy, right?” Stark asks flippantly, literally stretching out to lounge on the couch. It’s so reminiscent of Clint Barton that Phil could scream. Or cry. (Or, do as he always does, and sit in stoic silence, a single eyebrow raised). “Come on. Phone calls from your dead lover boy, personality changes, yada yada yada. That pretty much spells crazy.”

“Do you have a point, Stark?” Phil’s ironclad control slips, as it seems to do more and more often these days, and his eyes narrow. “Because, as I said, I have legitimate _work_ to do.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s concerning.”

“Always with the insults.” Stark flaps a hand at him, and Phil grits his teeth. “As I was saying, I’ve been thinking. About… things.”

“You have always had a gift for eloquence.” Phil nods absently, flipping open a report on his desk. Maybe if he works, he can drown out the sound of Tony Stark’s voice. Doubtful, but it’s certainly worth a shot.

“See, if Steve died.” His voice is softer now, and Phil chances a glance up. Stark’s wearing that look of quiet concentration, the expression he wears when he thinks no one’s paying attention. It reminds Phil that Tony Stark isn’t a cruel man, and he doesn’t do things like this flippantly. There is a point. Somewhere, mixed in all the bullshit, Tony Stark is trying to tell him something.

He isn’t entirely sure what. Or if it’s worth hearing.

“If Steve died,” Stark repeats, and his face rearranges to something resembling casual boredom when he catches Phil looking at him. “I don’t think I’d accept that. ‘Cause it’s Steve, you know? He’s Captain fucking America, and he’s basically impossible to kill. I mean, supersoldier serum aside, he’s so damn resilient and bossy and there’s no fucking way I’d just accept, oh he died.”

Phil doesn’t say anything. He isn’t entirely sure there’s something to say. He should appreciate this, the way he should have appreciated Natasha sharing herself. He should understand that his team, this ragtag team of superhumans and geniuses and powerhouses, is trying to make itself vulnerable to him.

“What I’m trying to say is…” Stark pauses, flashing Phil a bright grin that actually reaches his eyes. “I’d be crazy, too. And, hey. Maybe it’s not so crazy. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Agent, you’re fucking insane, but not ‘cause you miss your boyfriend and invent little phone calls from him.” It’s aggravating, the way he switches from sincere to – this.

“Is this the part where I thank you for your solidarity?” Phil raises an eyebrow, and Stark has the audacity to laugh.

“Nah. This is the part where you throw me out of your office for being a callous jackass.” He pushes to his feet, smirking, and shoots Phil a quick glance. “No one on Earth can fuck with my tech, you know.”

And as Stark leaves his office, Phil is struck by those words.

No one on Earth.

*

_Somewhere between the laughter and the wrestling, Clint’s lips find Phil’s. The archer is needy and demanding, biting down on his lip and sliding a hand up beneath his shirt. Phil should remind him that it’s already one in the morning, and he has work early the next morning due to a monthly meeting with Nick, Jasper, and Maria._

_Instead, he loses himself to the kiss, groaning into it, and is rewarded with a warm chuckle._

_His fingers dig into Clint’s skin, his teeth scraping down his neck, and he thinks he’s never heard a sound as beautiful as when Clint Barton moans his name. Never seen something as incredible as the archer flushed and sweaty and wanting, wanting him._

_As he moves inside him, he bites Clint’s collarbone to avoid saying_ I love you.

*

Phil knows he’s treading water, here. He’s going to be removed from his position as Avengers liaison if he can’t get his shit together. In fact, all things considered, he knows it’s simply because he and Nick have history that he hasn’t been removed already. In a combat situation, his new inability to keep his head could prove deadly.

But, for now, he’s got his position, and he’s going to use it to his advantage.

“Team, report.”

It’s almost nice to lose himself in this, in the familiarity of running an op (even if the Avengers’ battles are more like a war than a SHIELD operation). There is a faint cackle over the comm-lines – damn magical interference, he thinks – and then Natasha’s voice cuts through.

“Civilians cleared from the area, sir.”

“Whoever she is, she packs a wallop.” Steve adds, and he sounds winded. There is a loud clang over the comms, and a muted curse. Phil’s watching the surveillance video and catches a glance of Captain America knocking back some kind of magical blast with his shield.

A beautiful blonde woman, dressed skimpily in green, lands on the ground in front of him, her lips twisted into a cruel grin that should make her less beautiful but doesn’t. A melodious laugh bubbles out of her lips, and it half-enchants Phil through the comms, so he can only imagine its potency out there. For a moment, Steve stares stupidly at her, confused. And then he throws his shield.

She vanishes as it crashes into her, only to appear behind him. And then, with a snap, there are five of her, all wearing identical smirks, shifting toward the soldier.

“Hawkeye, you need-” Phil catches himself. “Iron Man, blast them up. Find the real one.”

If anyone notices his slip (and they all do, he has no doubt), they’re smart enough to save it for later. Stark blasts at them with the repulsor, and each vanishes in turn. The last shoots him a furious glance and ducks, sending some kind of magical blast at him with a flick of her wrist.

Thor crashes to the ground next to Steve, his face contorted in rage (or, possibly, frustration – Thor wears every emotion to its extreme, regardless). “Amora, end this foolishness, or you may well join my brother in imprisonment..”

“Thor, darling, I can scarcely remember the last time I saw you.” Her lips curl into a wicked grin and she flicks the green bolt at him. He swings his hammer to deflect it easily, and her lips push out into a pout. “Loki sends his regards to his dearest brother.” Thor’s face darkens.

Phil blinks, just the once, and then his mind is reeling. Because this woman – this Amora – has been in contact with Loki. Something clicks, like the final piece of a puzzle sliding into place, and he realizes he’s gone rigid and still. Because there is no way to hack Tony Stark’s tech, to anyone’s knowledge.

But Asgardians and their magic can do the impossible.

“Bring her in.” Phil’s voice is short over the comms.

“Copied.” Steve replies.

For the first time in two and a half months (well, really, in three months, since Clint disappeared), something like relief warms his chest. He isn’t entirely sure why, because this is just a hunch and every other lead (solid leads, more solid than a gut feeling and a couple of slips of tongue) has faded into nothing.

But if there’s anything Phil Coulson has learned over the years, it’s to trust his instincts.

*

_They never talk, after. Even now that this is a relationship – well, the closest either of them can come to a relationship, even if the only time it’s been mentioned was in a shitty gas station in Washington – they don’t talk about these things. But Phil gathers Clint in his arms, and the archer doesn’t complain as he settles against his chest._

_There is something soothing about the way Clint traces patterns into his skin, little touches that leave burning trails in their wake. The brush of skin is beautiful in its own way, a tiny little confession of emotion that neither man will allow himself to speak. Clint’s eyelashes brush against his skin when he blinks, his breath warm on his chest._

_But Clint always finds a way to surprise him._

_“I’ve never had someone like you.” The archer’s voice is soft and sleepy, rough around the edges, and his feet are no longer cold when they press against his skin (or, maybe they are, and Phil just doesn’t care so much)._

_“You have me now.” Phil replies, and he wishes his chest didn’t seize stupidly with emotion when he says it._

*

“Care to explain why we’re not shipping her magical ass back to Asgard right now, Agent Coulson?” Nick Fury asks pleasantly as he moves to stand alongside Phil. They are staring into the interrogation room.

Amora sulks silently on the other side of the glass, pouting prettily at her own reflection. Thor stands guard across from her, practically radiating a fury usually reserved for his brother. Every now and then, she throws that curtain of golden curls over one shoulder and glances up under her eyelashes at the demigod. This only seems to irritate him further to her obvious delight.

“I have several questions for her.” Phil replies, his voice as cool and professional as it ever was.

“Do any of those questions have to do with Clint Barton?” Nick asks with a raised brow. And, well, let it never be said that the Director pussyfoots around an issue.

“No.” Phil lies easily, crossing his arms over his chest with a shrug. “She mentioned she’d been in contact with Loki. As far as I can tell, there’s no one on Asgard with a vendetta against Earth besides Loki. I’d like to know his play in sending her.”

“And you couldn’t let the Asgardians find out? I’m sure they’d relay the information.” Nick is playing devil’s advocate, trying to get Phil to slip, and he knows it. It’s a useless game, because they both know he’s interested in Clint.

“I’m surprised _you_ don’t want her interrogated here.” He replies with a shrug.

“I do.” The other man answers. “But I wanted to know why you did.”

“I’m simply working in the interests of SHIELD and the planet.”

“You used to be a better liar, Phil.” Nick claps him on the shoulder and Phil can’t help the chuckle that escapes his lips. “Half an hour to ask all the questions you want. And then, if you’re not getting anything, we have Thor take her back. Understood? I do not want these Asgardian fuckers on my planet any longer than strictly necessary.”

“They do cause their own particular brand of mayhem, don’t they?” Phil shakes his head absently.

“For the record?” Nick glances at him, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’d give a hell of a lot for you to be able to say I told you so.”

“Touching, sir.” Phil replies, and the Director laughs at his side.  

*

_It doesn’t take long for Clint’s breath to slow and even. He snores softly, face half-pressed into Phil’s neck, arm looped loosely around his waist. The archer takes up more than his half of the bed, legs splayed and his free arm reaching toward the wall._

_Phil doesn’t mind, so much._

_“I think I love you.” He whispers, when he’s certain Clint is too far gone in sleep to answer._

*

“Please excuse us, Thor.” Phil offers the irritated god his blandest grin as he slips into the small room. Before he can argue, he points at the door. “I’d like to have a brief discussion with our guest. If you don’t mind.”

“Take care.” Thor claps a huge hand on his shoulder. He’s really rather proud that he doesn’t stagger beneath its weight. “Amora is as much a villain as my brother.”

“I understand the situation, Thor.” Phil assures him, and the god leaves, shooting a final grudging glance over his shoulder. The agent settles in the chair across from the lovely enchantress and folds his hands in his lap. “Hello.”  
“Phillip Coulson.” Her voice is beautiful, and her gaze thoughtful. “My, my, my. You’re plainer than I expected.”

“You expected me, then.” It’s not a question, and that perturbs her. Her eyes narrow, ever so slightly, and she cocks her head thoughtfully.  And then she pouts prettily at him, licking those full, luscious lips as she bats her eyes. For a moment, he is frozen, mesmerized. And then he manages to pull himself out of it. “Nice party trick.”

She frowns at him and she is considerably less enticing, though she remains as beautiful as before. After a beat, her lips curl into a smirk. “He thinks so, too.”

At first, he thinks she means Thor, and he is inclined to disagree. The demigod seems to have no real concept of sarcasm, which strikes him as odd considering the fact that Loki is his brother. It hits him like a freight train a moment later, and it’s all he can do to bite back Clint’s name. The emotion must cross his face, because she shoots him a triumphant smirk.

“He is, however, more susceptible to my particular… charms, shall we say, than you are.” She adds after a beat, that melodious voice barely audible. His stomach twists, and for a moment, he thinks he’s going to be sick. Her eyes narrow and her grin widens. “He is so very pretty, isn’t he, _Phil_?”

His hands clench into fists and he sucks in a breath. For a wild moment, he considers wrapping those same hands around her throat. And then he slowly pulls himself together. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Amora’s grin falters, and her brow creases in irritation. She crosses her arms – pushing those impressive breasts impossibly higher – and scoffs. “No. I’m sure you don’t.”

They sit in tense silence for a beat. It slowly dawns on him that she’s like a cat, toying with her prey. She simply isn’t having any fun if he keeps himself contained. And she’s certainly not going to say another word about Clint unless she’s enjoying herself.

“He’s dead.” Phil says abruptly, allowing just enough genuine pain to leak into his voice that her smile returns.

“Perhaps.” She allows, cocking her head so a wave of golden curls falls over a shoulder.

“And at any rate, I am not here to discuss Agent Barton.” He lies with a raised eyebrow, allowing his hands to once more clench into tight, angry fists. “I would like information about your involvement with Loki.”

“Mm, no, no, no, that’s not what you want to know.” Amora replies, almost unkindly. “Death is a tricky thing, you know. You yourself were perceived as dead, were you not? And yet here we sit.” He allows himself to flinch before he tears his gaze away. After a moment, she presses on. “I wasn’t aware dead men could make use of your Midgardian communication devices.”

“They can’t.” Phil grinds out, and he’s surprised to find he’s only half-faking it.

She leans forward, so close she could kiss him. “You humans and your sentiment.” Her breath is warm against his skin, sweet, and it takes all his self control not to shove her away. “You _wept_ when he screamed, did you not?”

It’s not until she laughs, cold and clear and almost musical, that he realizes he’s wrapped his fingers around her throat.

“I considered killing him, you know. I intended to, eventually, when I grew bored of him.” She plucks his hand away without effort, and he is suddenly aware that she carries as much strength in those delicate hands as Thor. “But he’s very pretty, isn’t he? And so very fun, I suppose.” She glances at him critically. “The damaged ones always are, don’t you think?”

“He’s alive.” Phil manages, but his voice is raspy.

“I’m not sure I want to give him up. Not yet.” Amora continues as if he hadn’t spoken. He supposes he should be grateful she is too intent on destroying him to realize she’s shown her hand prematurely. Whatever game she’s playing with him, with Clint, with the Avengers, it’s over now. “It was easy to access his mind, even at great distance. Loki left a mark, you know, and it may as well have been a beacon, inviting all sorts of magical mischief. His mind is so very interesting.” Her lips curl into a grin. “But you know that, do you not?”

They sit in silence for a moment. Her green eyes settle on him, judging the damage he’s taken, and those lips purse into a frown.

“He is so very loyal.” She says finally with a dismissive shrug. “It positively _kills_ him that I know his expression when he comes.”

Phil is faintly aware of the door jerking open, of Natasha forcing him to his feet, bullying him out the door. He thinks he sees Jasper stalk into the interrogation room, fury etched into his expression, and he absently wonders when the last time he saw Jasper angry was.

Mostly, though, he notices the tinkle of feminine laughter, loud and cruel.

“Breathe.” Natasha hisses in his ear, shoving him down the hallway. Their coworkers part without question, without so much as a second glance in their direction, but Phil thinks he can hear the whispers behind them. He tries to argue that he wants – _needs_ – to see the rest of the interrogation, but can only manage a garbled noise before she shoves him into his office and kicks the door shut behind them.

The only sound in the room is his ragged breath.

“She could be lying.” The Russian murmurs as she maneuvers him onto his couch. She shoves his head between his knees, which is ridiculous and entirely unnecessary.

“Do you really believe that?” He asks after a beat, and is surprised to find that he is on the verge of tears.

“No.” She replies without hesitation, and then pushes his trash can in front of him. When his stomach is empty, she absently brushes his hair back on his forehead. “He’s alive.”

“I told you so.” Phil’s joke falls flat, and he frowns. Natasha simply shoots him a tiny, sad smile, and he realizes that this situation is much more fucked up than he’d originally anticipated.

“Yes. You did.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm really sorry this took so long. Real life got busy, and I got stuck on this, and then I had it written but not typed, and it's been a doozy. All the same, I hope it lived up to your expectations. One more chapter to go! And, yes, there's a happy ending. So there's that. 
> 
> For those of you that've left me reviews and stuck around, thank you so much. Every word has been read, and it's all been so encouraging and wonderful. Thank you so much. Genuinely, you've made it a pleasure to keep working on this fic when it was giving me hell.


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